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COPYRIGHTED DECEMBER, 1909. 



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Dedication 9 

Apology 11 

"Katrela" 13 

Come to the Meadows and Greenwood . . » . .15 

O! Quiet Little Vale 16 

Le Message de la Vie 17 

The Shadow of a Sin 18 

The Issue 19 

Far Down the Vista of Receding Years 20 

When I Come Home at Night ......... 21 

We Met and Parted 22 

Sunset 23 

Twilight 24 

Beauty 25 



^Dedication. 

To my parents, whose zeal for my education 
often led to their self-sacrifice, are these 
lines affectionately inscribed by 

THE AUTHOR, 



It has been said of poets, as well as all other 
creatures of the artistic temperament, that they are intrin- 
sically selfish. Such an accusation is, of course, true, 
but it does not apply to artists any more than other classes 
of men. 

Some kind of selfishness is at the bottom of every 
man's actions, be he poet, preacher, teacher, merchant or 
manufacturer; and the difference between men lies 
mainly in the quality of selfishness. 

This little book, therefore, whatever else it may be, 
is surely the product of a selfish heart; for, after all, 
what could be more selfish than to wish to be remem- 
bered by one's friends. 

THE AUTHOR. 



O, come, Fair Muses of Parnassus Mount, 
And pour into my soul your ceaseless fount 

Of never ending song. 
Inspirers of the eternal Heaven 
Come as of yore when first your themes were given 

Through me your dreams prolong. 

From my Class Poem, "Katrela." 



Page Thirteen 



(Tome to l\)d Jliea&ows anb (&reenwoo5» 

Come to the meadows and greenwood today, 
Come where the skylark is singing his lay, 
Where the brooks murmur thru all the day long, 
Where the glad blue bird chants his sweet song. 

Come in the morning when dew drops are bright, 
Come when the sun throws his first rays of light, 
Filling the land with a glorious dawn, 
When the night watchers have fled and are gone. 

But once will the lilies perfume the sweet air, 
But once will the flowers seem lovely and fair; 
The sun will go down at the close of the day, — 
Then come to the meadows and greenwood, away. 



Page Fifteen 



O! OuienLittte Vale, 

O, quiet little Vale, 

With thine ever varying tale, 

With thine ever changing mood to 

match my own; 
How I love thy hillsides green 
And the brook that runs between 
With its gentle, half complaining, 

soothing tone. 

When my heart is sad, 
And the day no longer glad, 
To thy fond embrace my spirit 

soon doth yield; 
And thy sympathetic smile 
Bids my cares begone the while, 
And thy wings of peace and love my 

torn heart shield. 

When my soul's at ease, 

And the day is crowned with peace, 

And no threat 'ning cloud hangs over 

wood and lea; 
Then I seek thy fond retreat 
Where I linger at thy feet 
While thy myriad charms beguile and 

ravish me. 

When I lie at rest 

And my pillow is thy breast, 

And thy rapturous lap my bed of 

last repose, — 
May my dreams bespeak of thee 
Through the long eternity 
In each gentle air that o'er me 

softly blows. 



Page Sixteen 



Te yttdssa^d 6e la Vie* 

Man lives between the barren peaks 

Of two Eternities, 
Whose awful heights he can not scale, 

O'er which he never sees. 
He lifts his voice in prayer to one 

Whom God he vainly calls, 
But to the oft repeated cry 

No answer disenthralls. 

He asks of Earth the problem wrought. 

And with her constant tale 
She fills his heart with hope and trust 

Till drops Death's sullen veil: 
Alas! she can not carry him 

Beyond that dark domain; 
His heart despairs, his hopes fall off 

And life seems all in vain. 

If e'er, at length, his spirit falls 

A prodigal, — outcast, 
And turns the query to itself, 

The answer comes at last:— 
That, He whom ye have sought in vain, 

On earth, beneath, above, 
Dwells in the Soul's abyssmal deeps 

And His fair name is LOVE. 



Page Seventeen 



I31)e Shadow of a Siit* 

O, the shadow of a sin, how it haunts us! 

How it follows us from early morn till night. 

O, the shadow of a sin, how it taunts us! 

How it casts a depth of gloom where all was bright. 
How it fills the heart with sorrow, 
Makes us fear to face the morrow, 

Makes our fond ambitions wither with its blight. 

O, the shadow of a sin, how erase it, 
How to cast it from our presence evermore? 
O, the shadow of a sin, how displace it 
With the primal virtue that we felt before? 

How dispel the blot that blinds us, 

How r to put the gloom behind us, 
How regain the childlike happiness of yore? 

O, the shadow of a sin, ghastly shadow! 
T is a phantom, just a creature of the night; 
Like a ghost its ugly form will quickly vanish 
If we'll turn our faces skyward to the light. 

We can put it straight behind us, 

And it nevermore shall blind us, 
If we'll only think and speak and act aright. 



Page Eighteen 



*&\)t TJssue- 

WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1908. 

My friends, be not deceived about the issue of the day, 

Be not at all influenced by the campaign's loud display; 

Be neither stirred nor shaken by the flaunting talk of men, 

Be not at all mistaken by a bought and servile pen; 

Let not your minds outridded be by torch lights and parades, 

Let not your souls be cheated by sheer fife and drum brigades: 

Remember that the real issue which we must meet today, 

Is not mere planks of platforms, but The Human Right of Way. 

Shall the Wall that hedges round us and its pound of flesh exacts. 
That high "protective" tariff — the poor man's income tax, — 
Shall this be "revised upward," this predatory wall, 
Until its malign sentries shall our very souls enthrall? 
Shall the man who toils and swelters 'neath the unrelenting sun, 
Be robbed of half his breakfast ere his day's work has begun? 
Shall the sacred right of men to work and share a just reward, 
Be the rock of our Republic, — or the rich man's yellow hoard? 

Has love of country come to mean, as some would intimate, 

That the individual must be crushed for mere sake of the State? 

Is this the Socialistic trend, the swift tobogan slide, 

Whose quick, inevitable end is the Nation's suicide? 

Let no one be deceived in this, — they call it "regulation," 

They call it "Federal control," — the real name is stagnation. 

My friends, this vital issue rests with us election day, — 

Shall we crush our children's hopes or pave The Human Right of Way) 



Page nineteen 



^arT^owit tl)* Vista of Receding $Jears. 

Far down the vista of receding years 
There lies a sunny land of myth and story, 
Where all was merriment or fleeting tears 
And innocence was childhood's crown of glory. 

One Spring I knew as never any since, 
When I a dweller was in that fair region, 
So filled with trees abloom and sweet incense, 
With birds and bees and butterflies a legion. 

One Summer with its long eventful days, 
With twilight and with daybreak nearly meeting, 
Outshines all others and more closely lays 
Around my heart, and sets it wildly beating. 

One Winter in that Land of long ago 
Oft through the memory comes softly stealing; 
And voices of that time ring sweet and low, 
Deep in my soul the happy hours revealing. 

Lost are the faces of that happy time, 
Lost are the hearts far truer than the seeming, — 
Except when Fancy takes me to that clime 
And sets my soul adrift the sea of dreaming. 

Lost shall I say? Ah yes, it is most true, 
The sad reality brings constant sighing; 
There's pleasure in my dreams and sadness too, 
A flood and ebb of living and of dying. 



Page Twenty 



*ty\)tn~3 (Tcme3fome at ^ti^ljt 

When Kitty meets me at the door, 

Or runs far down the lane 
To throw her arms around my neck, 

And welcome me again. 
The busy cares of all the day 

That robbed me of delight 
Unfold their wings and fly away 

When I come home at night. 

Now, Kitty is a little girl, 

My own dear little tot; 
Her every action is her heart's 

She thinks and reasons not: 
She doesn't care who hears her shout 

Or sees her smiles so bright 
As she runs down the path to me 

When I come home at night. 

When I come home at night! Ah well, 

*Tis then the world grows dim; 
I banish every troubled thought 

And every care and whim. 
The foreground of life's picture then 

Is Kitty on the lawn, — 
She romps with me and I with her 

Till the twilight hour is gone. 

That hour is always sweet to me, 

My heart grows purer then 
(Her innocence so challenges) 

And I'm a child again: 
What visions of sweet other days 

O'er my horizon creep 
When she curls up within my arms 

And softly falls to sleep I 



Page Twenty-one 



We, ytltl anb~$arUb, 

One quiet evening in the fall 
O'er hills and meadows far away; 
And thru the woodland, thru the corn, 
I strolled at close of day. 

The western sun was bending low 
As long the winding path I strolled; 
The evening sky's autumnal hues 
Were lovely to behold. 

The voices of the woods were dumb 
Save thru the distance calm and clear 
The low, dull barking of a squirrel 
Fell faintly on my ear. 

A rabbit now and then would jump 
From out its burrowed hiding place, 
And run across my path — would stop, 
And stare me in the face. 

I wandered on along the way 
Scarce knowing where my weary feet 
Would carry me, until at last, 
A friend I chanced to meet. 

We met in formal "How d'ye do?" 
But in my heart arose such bliss 
As comes to one who is alone, 
And sad, perhaps, I wis. 

With souls contented and accord 
We followed on the winding way; — 
I can not half describe the joy 
That filled my breast that day. 

But ere we'd wandered far, our path 
Divided: — lonely as before 
And sad, she left me and was gene, — 
I saw her nevermore. 



Page twenty-two 



Sunset 

Now sinks the evening sun; 

The birds that twittered all the day have gone to rest; 
The hunter homeward saunters with his gun, 

Where by the winter fire he folds his children to his breast. 

How glorious is the sky! 

The clouds reflect the beauty of the hidden sun; 
Yea, lovelier now than at the noontide high, 

Most beautiful his scenes are when the weary day is done. 

Long after he has set, 

Long after he has from the earth withdrawn his face, 
I do behold his wondrous beauty yet, 

As from the clouds reflected down upon a changeful race. 

And so fades life at last; 

But he who leaves behind no trace of truth, 
And seeks his grave in sorrow for the past, 

Far better would have been if he had died in hopeful 
youth. 



Page Twenty-three 



Beneath the sky withdraws the golden sun, 
The last faint rays come peeping o'er the hills; 

Soon is the cricket's dreary song begun, 
Soon will the starlight twinkle in the rills. 

How softly dies the landscape on the sight, 
As if its life lay in the sunlight beams; 

Soon earth beneath the dusky wings of night 
In slumber lies enwrapt and lost in dreams. 

My youth's fond eye looks out upon the scene 
Which softly glimmers neath the rising moon, 

And in my heart a voice I hear serene 

Recalling dreams of childhood, — ah! too soon. 

But as the light dies in the glowing west. 

And gathering gloom seems now to cover all, 

With yonder star hope rises in my breast 
And beckons me to follow at her call. 



Page Twenty-four 



There's beauty in the fallen leaves 
That rustle to my tread; 
There's beauty o'er the browning wold 
Tho* all the flowers are dead. 
There's beauty in the winter winds 
That through the forest roar,— 
There's beauty, beauty, everywhere 
Tho' summer days are o'er. 

There's beauty in a wearied life 
Tho* hopes of youth have fled; 
There's beauty in an aching heart 
Tho' cherished loves lie dead — 
There's beauty round a family hearth 
Tho' robbed of mother's care, 
For the softening touch of her sweet love 
Blends with the heart's despair. 

There's beauty in this world of ours 

Where e'er we please to look; 

In the crushing ice drifts of the North 

Or our own dear babbling brook; 

On the western planes, or the lofty heights 

Of the Rockies sylv'ry crest; 

And the one who shares the most in life 

Is the one who sees the best. 



Twenty-five 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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